


Viper From Tevinter

by theparadox



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, defending dorian because dorian deserves defending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadox/pseuds/theparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Members of the Inquisition keep bad-mouthing their Tevinter companion, warning the Inquisitor against associating with him. Aristide has had enough of their commands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viper From Tevinter

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in my previous work, Aristide was the slave to an Orlesian noble family before becoming the Inquisitor. He struggles with concepts of autonomy and refusing orders. As he grows accustomed to the concept, he grows even more agitated when others tell him with who he should -- or should NOT -- consort.

“ _BAISER_   _les_!”

The outburst startles Dorian – not only because of the sound of the apparent curse word, but also with the aggression with which it was said. Aristide is soft spoken. Gentle, as he was raised to be, however firm. But he has never shouted before. Not anywhere outside of battle. Yet now, he shouts as soon as he enters his quarters, where Dorian had been waiting peacefully, enjoying the Inquisitor’s personal stash of books in the corner of the room. But now, he is fully distracted from his current story to lift an eyebrow at his apparently enraged lover.

“Troubled, _amatus_?”

Aristide does not seem to know what to do with his anger. He has never been allowed to experience it. He exhales sharply in a snort of contempt, tossing his overcoat onto the bed with such force that it slides off the other side. Dorian clicks his tongue and rises to retrieve it, lest it accumulate in the dust on the floor.

“Now, now, there is no need to take your mood out on your coat—“

“They speak of matters they do not even try to understand! At least three times only today, they have approached me with a warning. ‘Treat Dorian with caution, he is from Tevinter.  The rumors! He is of Minrathous, there will be talk of his influence on you, perhaps by blood magic.’ Blood magic! They speak as though you are a venomous viper coming to feed upon my throat!”

Dorian freezes as he reaches for the coat. Their relationship has brought disputes among their inner circle. Caution. Hate. Repression. He slowly rises again to fold the fabric.

“Well, they are not entirely wrong…”

Aristide sighs and gives him a _look_. He recognizes the joke. He would be amused otherwise. But he _knows_ the subject eats at Dorian. The fact of what people will say about them. He frowns and extends his hand commandingly, as though to lecture.

“They are _entirely wrong_. They have not spoken to you. They only see your Altus title and hear your accent, and you are cast aside. Furthermore, they implore _me_ to cast you aside, as though your power will exert over _me_. They _command_ me to desist.”

The room is silent a moment, the coat folded neatly in Dorian’s hands. They both know. Aristide has only recently learned to resist commands, and even now, it is difficultly done. Dorian knows better than anyone how far the elf has come, but still. He fears. What if his grooming wins out? What if he reverts? It is a momentary fear, but it is present in his eyes, and Aristide, for all his advanced observations, manages to see it. He steps forward, his hand becoming firmer.

“I _will not._ They will _not_ command me. There is not a man alive who can order me apart from you.”

Dorian has never seen Aristide this way. So extremely, directly in charge. Not simply avoiding the issue of autonomy, but actively engaging with it. Aristide will fight against his advisors, the Inquisition, his own grooming in favor of him. Dorian cannot seem to conjure a joke to rebuff. It seems he does not need one. The coat slides from his fingers as Aristide strides forward to grasp his head in his hands, looking him directly in the eyes. Eye contact.

“You do not deserve this treatment. You are my beauty. _Tu es mon privilège. Mon honneur. Mon cœur t'appartient. Ma fierté_.”

Aristide need not continue. He cannot recall who moves forward first, or perhaps they both did, but their lips touch immediately. He will not relinquish the first thing that was truly _his._

* * *

 

 _BAISER _les!:__ FUCK them!

 _Tu es mon privilège. Mon honneur. Mon cœur t'appartient. Ma fierté_.: You are my privilege. My honor. My heart belongs to you. My pride.

All French comes from Google translate. Forgive me.


End file.
